Toilet Humor
by Scraggles
Summary: Chuck decides to drive his car into a restroom in Royal Flush Plaza and discovers that what goes around comes around, but what goes in doesn't always come out.


Hello, all. Just a short fic I came up with while lazing about. Figured I'd submit before I lost it somewhere.

Enjoy!

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><p>Chuck sighed at his predicament, hands grasping the wheel of his freshly acquired yellow convertible firmly. Looking to his left, he attempted to back out of the small, crème colored restroom once more, only succeeding in ramming the tail end of the vehicle into an expertly placed corner. When he'd pulled in so easily, minutes ago for a break he hadn't expected his impromptu barricade, the car, to be so hard to remove. It should have only been a few simple wheels and turns, and then he'd have had the sports car out in the plaza again, burning rubber and screeching tires on tile, carpet and zombies alike. Why wouldn't it cooperate?<p>

He ran a hand through his unruly sandy blonde hair, peering down at his watch. Stacey had called – and repeatedly nagged him, going off on some tangent that somehow involved Rebecca Chang and her lip balm, which apparently tasted of pineapple and fish flakes and was absolutely unacceptable - earlier about some psychopath that was running about. He was running out of time, something Stacey had also mentioned various times during her one way conversations with him – again, also touching on the subject of Asian reporter Trisha Taka- well, Rebecca Chang.

"Damnit. Anybody out there?" Chuck called out to no one in particular. Most of the survivors and looters were hiding out in their own little safehouses or pawnshops this time of night, so most likely the only thing that his yelling was accomplishing was drawing more undead to his location; he didn't care.

He was considering pushing the vehicle out of the restroom at this point; that was more practical than sitting in an endless loop of forward, reverse, _crash,_ crack the magic mirror, reverse, knock over the trash can, forward, right, forward, jar the dirty tampons out of a stall, left, reverse, crash, _smash_ the paper towel dispenser, repeat. Of course, considering practicality, it would have been more _practical_ if he'd just left the vehicle _outside_ the restroom while he did his business. That much was clear by now; then again, the last time he'd done something practical, it had ended in an instance of grand-theft golf cart and DWZ, the latter standing for "driving while zombified." Both crimes were perpetrated by one very unfortunate male zombie. A tomahawk had proven instrumental in Chuck's administering of justice there.

With a frustrated sigh, Chuck turned the steering wheel until the car made a hard left and went forward as he internally lamented on his momentary stupidity; it was almost as if some moron was lazing about on a mattress and controlling his actions with the flick of a thumb, eating potato chips and downing soda on the side. Spinning the wheel in the opposite direction, he managed to sidle the car between the rows of stalls behind him, and with a quick reverse, he tore between them, righted the wheels straight ahead and patted the gas. Just like that, he was snubbing walls and trading paint on his way out of the restroom, and quickly, he was out into the plaza again, his next order of business being the Slot Ranch Casino – after some supply runs and a couple life-threatening encounters, of course.

For his run in with the next psycho, he'd need some supplies, food, namely. The Pallisades Mall grocery was on his to-go list for this measure, but he'd have to crash in on the Yucatan Casino and garner himself the chopper if he hoped to get there unscathed – and that was if he could ramp the damned thing up the escalator again for massive amounts of zombie-smashing PP, or whatever that half-witted TIR contestant in the green suit had been going on about – 'twice the points.' Of course, there was always the shortcut in the restrooms too, but he'd just pulled out with his sporty little mellow, yellow kill-a-fellow sort of corvette after sitting through several of Stacey's annoying voice-mails (did walkie-talkies even have those?), and he wasn't quite ready for that to happen again – not while his _car_ was hopelessly stuck in a restroom, anyway. That would have to wait for another time.

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><p><strong>Fin<strong>


End file.
